It's That Simple
by Ink On Paper
Summary: Love. It's that simple.
1. Author's Note

**A/N: So I have started one of those contrived alphabet things that I, once again, swore I would never write, but alas, here we are. There are approximately twenty-seven days until the Season 8 premire and therefore this little series will be updated every day for twenty-six consecutive days. Each drabble is actually a honest drabble: 100 words exactly. You can count 'em if you don't believe me. And true to drabble form, even this author's note is 100 words. And writing 100 words? Much harder than I thought. Keep the peace and much love, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.**


	2. A

**A Deux:**

"The French had it wrong," she informs him as he presses a kiss behind her ear, her neck, her collarbone.

"Oh?" he murmurs distractedly against her skin, continuing his ministrations.

"Are you familiar with the term 'a deux'?" she asks and he nods, replying, "Like when two people dine together."

While impressed, she adds, "Its literal translation is into 'of two' and it is used to denote a private occurrence between two people. 'A deux' has always felt too strong for dining arrangements though."

"I agree," he whispers. "Its meaning seems more . . . . intimate."

She grins softly at his understanding.

"Je t'aime."

"Idem."


	3. B

**A/N: My favorite one that I've written yet (I have most of this piece done). This can serve to explain that scene Jack Knife with Gibbs and McGee and "Get Ziva and DiNozzo out of bed." And for the record, this author's note does not count to the 100 words in this drabble. Nor does the title. And I previously considered 'a deux' one word, which is why there were actually 102 :^). And many thanks to livingandbreathing for catching my French error. Much love, Kit.**

**Booty Call:**

She picks up on the third ring.

"You better not be booty calling me, McGee." Slumber lurks in her growl as she forgoes proper etiquette and demands an explanation. And Gibbs glares impatiently while McGee flounders for a response to her accusation after very nearly dropping his phone. Muffled words are exchanged in the background, a deep voice –a man's voice- rumbling beside her.

"Sorry, _butt dialing_. You better not be butt dialing me, McGee," she corrects and he's rendered speechless once more.

Because there's only one man that can decipher a mangled jargon at two a.m.

Which would mean . . . . .


	4. C

**A/N: This one was tough.**

**Couch:**

His elbow's braced on the armrest, his head propped against his hand. His posture belies tense muscles that, coupled with evident exhaustion, denote a transatlantic flight.

She's similarly disheveled, wrinkled blouse and hair restrained in an impromptu bun at her nape. After a loud conversation with the concierge regarding two overbookings, she resigned herself to the couch, immediately falling asleep, her head eventually gravitating to her partner's thigh.

After fifteen minutes wrapped in each other, napping, there's proclamation of a newly vacated suite and they accept the single accommodation.

So it's true they both slept on a couch in Paris.


	5. D

**Daddy**

He stares at Eli David, motionless on his back, face contorted in surprise, a bullet hole perfectly centered between his eyes.

"Don't speak," and her command stifles his gratitude as she stands in the doorway, the smoking gun held loosely in her hand, hanging limply at her side. Softly, she explains, "I have an ulterior motive. You may be my partner and you may have had my back on so many occasions, but I did not kill my father just for you." Her eyes flash to his, "I am a selfish person, Tony. Evidently, I couldn't live without you either."


	6. E

The squeal of metal grinding metal startles them, sending him staggering forward and her grasping the railing. A heaving lurch and the elevator cabin halts, lights flickering overhead before plunging them into darkness.

"You okay?" he whispers from somewhere at her left.

"Yes. You?"

"Yeah . . . . We'll be here awhile."

"Running record is nine hours, twenty-one minutes."

"Get comfy," he says, sliding to the floor with a sigh. She joins him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Of all the people to get stuck in a little tiny box with, I'm glad it's you." The irony's obvious.

"Love you, too, sweetcheeks."


	7. F

**A/N: A mildly trite prompt word, but I had to go there. **

**Fifty-One**

She hears the knock, a listless, muted thunk that beckons her off the couch, abandoning the cocoon of her warm afghan in reluctant favor of answering the door.

The click of the deadbolt and . . . . .

"Tony," her voice doesn't betray her surprise.

He offers a weak grin that doesn't reach his eyes and she notices a small healing scrape above his left brow that wasn't there before.

Forgoing proper greeting, she asks without preamble, "Why are knocking on your own door?"

He manages a lopsided shrug, "I don't know. I thought you were furious with me."

"Rule fifty-one," she replies softly.


	8. G

**Guilty**

He is highly acquainted with the term 'guilty' and its every implication. As a federal investigator, he's honed his talent at identifying the culpable party, prides himself on the fact that he seems to be less wrong every day. He's been accused of murder not once, but three times –all with varying degrees of absurdity- and has effectively eluded unwarranted convictions on all occasions.

Until now.

"I was home last night," he admits in utter veracity.

Vance's voice is cool, skeptic, "Can anyone confirm your alibi?"

And then Ziva's framed in the doorway.

"I can."

And they're so very guilty.


	9. H

**A/N: There is an alternate chapter to H that I posted on my LiveJournal if anyone would like to check it out at **http : / / www . ink-on-paper93 . livejournal . com **(just be sure to take out the spaces) Love and peace, Kit!**

**Habanera**

The poetic twang of acoustic guitar fills her apartment curiously.

It isn't until he's twirling her around, one palm settling at the curve of her waist as the other cradles her hand, tugging her against him, that she realizes his ulterior motive.

He's slow and less adept at this than she, but his movements are fluid in his loose interpretation, the underlying message of this impromptu dance conveyed. She lets him lead, and, when he dips her back, she laughs and he smiles.

The Habanera continues, bypassing its resolution.

Eyes glinting mischievously, he murmurs in her ear, "It's on repeat."


	10. I

**Impulse**

She is an impulsive person, a trait she's long reconciled with –even finding that to some extent her impetuosity has aided in her cause.

And now is certainly no exception.

Despite the change of setting, a car interior replacing a row of desks, the surrounding noise that of traffic and not the monotony of a government-funded lecturer. It's an odd wash of déjà vu, leaning forward and tasting the skin of his neck, this time just underneath his jaw. It's the briefest of contacts, a quick caress that startles him and goes unnoticed by McGee.

Alas spontaneous alleviation of tedium.


	11. J

**Juxtaposition**

They're two contrasting forces, often moving in the opposite of simultaneousness in regards to a shared emotional plane. Friend and enemy, weakness and strength. Yin and yang.

Ironically complimentary. (Isn't it always?)

The ability to know where to strike most damagingly, borne of an intimate awareness of the countering psyche, parallels the comprehension of just what to say to alleviate a sting.

For two people who cannot agree on a breakfast cereal, they amazingly function as one entity when their lives literally depend upon unified cooperation. Tacit and implicit, unison and understood, they're the epitome of partnerships.

And oxymoronic juxtapositions.


	12. K

**Kiss**

Their first kiss outside false pretexts is not hard and angry and rough, nor is it tentative and timid and gentle.

Her lips are soft under his, pliant, willing. And when she deepens the kiss, he explores her mouth unhurriedly, leisurely. His hands find her hips, anchoring her there as if she might vanish, _poof_. And, yes, he does marvel at how perfectly they seem to fit.

There are no fireworks, no laser-displays, though surely there were snow flurries in hell.

In all honesty, it is familiar, them together like this. Familiar and comfortable and, oddly, normal.

For them, anyway.


	13. L

**Lace**

It isn't until she regains her confidence that she realizes she'd lost it, her self-assurance just another casualty of war, another soldier missing in action and when he tells her she's beautiful, she believes him.

She buys it on impulse, something pretty to spoil herself simply because she can. A negligee of fine silk in a delicate ivory edged with gossamer lace and she adores the way it makes her feel. Sure and sexy, strong and feminine.

She shows it to him and, yes, he's definitely captivated.

However it isn't the lace he finds so alluring, but the woman herself.


	14. M

**Mortimer**

She'd appointed Tony as babysitter while she met with the DA regarding a court testimony she was due to give the following morning. The meeting had taken not only her lunch break, but an additional half hour and she was feeling mildly guilty at having wasted her friend's afternoon with mere puppy-watching.

He's on his back, sprawled across her emergency futon, sound asleep. Ziva's apparently decided to keep him company, curling into his side, recruiting his shoulder as a pillow. And Mortimer, of course, has wedged himself between the two, in absolute puppy bliss.

Abby considers the afternoon _not_ wasted.


	15. N

**New**

The morning dawns cold and grey outside the window, but the opposite side of the glass yields a different perspective. There's a brightness and excitement barely contained within the apartment walls and it's an honest wonder why it hasn't melted the permafrost outside.

Because Ziva David turns twenty-eight today.

For a woman never expected to see beyond twenty-five, it's no small feat. She should feel old, by certain accounts she is, but instead she feels young, her entire life spread out before her, opportunities that were previously impossible no longer so.

"I'm glad you're here," he whispers softly.

"Me too."


	16. O

**Okay**

The clouds hang ominously in the rapidly darkening sky and he fears the thunder rolling distantly may prelude to a much more dire composition.

They move in tandem as he keeps his back to hers, gun ready, watching the retreat of their advance, wary of ambush.

Hell breaks loose behind him, the echoing cracks of gunfire shredding the silence. He's already spun around and fired off two rounds before his brain even registers the ringing in his ears.

"Ziva?" His voice is strained because she's gone down with the druggie-

"I'm okay."

And he thinks, _And I'm so very lucky._


	17. P

**Paris**

It is not the first time she's seen it, the Eiffel Tower standing proudly over the Seine, lit up as if composed of stars. And while the monument is iconic and certainly worth visiting, it's not the most spectacular construction she's ever stood before.

The crumbling remains of the Coliseum, the epitome of imperfect beauty; the dark, almost haunting reverence evoked by the Notre Dame. These immense structures are what she identifies with. The Eiffel Tower is nice, yes, but it isn't so nearly thought provoking.

Tony's expression, however, as he marvels up at Paris' finest, rivals even Roman glory.


	18. Q

**Quiet**

Her days are composed of noises, some softer than others, all very much present nonetheless, of voices and life . . . .

And then there're the nights.

She relishes the night for the silence it yields, the blank canvas provided for the minutiae of sounds that dare to disrupt the careful hush . . . .

The steady whisper of air as he exhales and the slight wheeze denoting the intake of breath makes her smile as his heartbeat, constant beneath his chest, acts as a lullaby, casting away shadows. And she sleeps soundly to the rhythm of his pulse and the blissful quiet out of chaos.


	19. R

**Respect**

"You had sex," McGee states bluntly as Tony walks in, emanating contentedness.

Tony drops his car-keys onto his desk, glancing over at McGee, "And?"

"And you're not talking about it," the younger man's disbelief is barely contained.

Now Tony's incredulous, "You _want_ to hear about my sex life?"

"No! It's just . . . . you can't keep your breakfast a secret, DiNozzo. And you haven't been whining about not dating and . . . . . . You really like this girl."

"It's called respect, McGee. I respect her and our relationship."

Ziva enters, "She must be a lucky girl."

Tony shakes his head, smiling, "I'm a lucky man."


	20. S

**Say**

Of course, it's first uttered in the throes of an argument that is on the verge of breaking out World War III.

He's red faced and livid and she's thoroughly pissed off.

They're long past the point of sarcasm and way beyond the point of no return.

She says it in the midst of cursing his name, an admittance that doesn't go unnoticed, but remains wholly unacknowledged.

Of course.

. . . . . .

She said it when he wasn't expecting it.

He wasn't expecting that bomb blast a couple hours later either.

_Why do near-death-experiences bring perspective?_

He rolls over, whispers, "I love you too."


	21. T

**Tattoo**

She squirms beneath his fingers, the roughness of his palms tickling her sides as his hands explore her waist, her stomach. She resorts to biting her lower lip to keep from making a noise, to keep herself from giving him the satisfaction . . . .

"Tony!" she cries, unable to curb her laughter any longer. And she's writhing and wriggling as his own low chuckles vibrate into the air, into the mattress, into her. He crawls over her, flopping down on his stomach, his head falling next to hers on the pillow.

"Proud of yourself, DiNozzo?"

"Found your tattoo."

**A/N: One week to go :^)**


	22. U

**Undercovers (Again)**

The difference's evident in their voices, in the rustle of sheets. In the way Ziva laughs at something DiNozzo's said.

The mattress creaks as Ziva shifts onto her side, facing her partner. And in the green hues of night vision, it's obvious, the openness of her face, the easiness of her smile. There's a low rumble as Tony murmurs something, and once again she chuckles and he marvels at how young she looks.

Young and happy.

It's too intimate for pretend.

DiNozzo leans forward, presses a kiss against her lips, an innocent gesture that goes beyond the ruse and abandons pretext.


	23. V

**Voting**

_Based off the line: "I think I'm going to call my Congressman." (Rule 51)_

"I'm impressed DiNozzo."

He glances up at his name, his jacket half shrugged off, regarding McGee with a quirked eyebrow. "Well," he replies, "I'm an impressive man, but enlighten me, Probie, what have I done today that earns such laud?"

"You voted," McGee answers bluntly, nodding to indicate the sticker pressed onto Tony's lapel, bold red proudly proclaiming: I VOTED! "You never vote."

"Not true," the older man refutes indignantly. "I always exercise my citizen rights."

"In general elections?"

"Well, no, McSkeptic, but our current Congressman is doing a good job and deserved my time."

_And I owed him one._


	24. W

It's the incessant buzzing that wakes him, prompts him to reach out from the warm cocoon of blankets and snatch the vibrating device from its night table perch.

He should punch 'Ignore call' -to hell with consequence.

"DiNozzo," he says hoarsely, pressing the phone to his ear, his voice slurring with sleep. The mattress shifts as she rolls over, blinking owlishly, requisitioning his shoulder for a brief stint as a pillow. She listens to Tony's side of the conversation, slowly regaining awareness.

"Yeah, Boss. We'll be there in twenty."

And at two a.m., the importance of pronouns is sadly neglected.


	25. X

**A/N: Salaam is the Arabic equivalent to peace or shalom. Xenophobism is the fear of foreigners and is, ultimately, a form of discrimination -xenophobism can be religious intolerance . . . . So let's all love our neighbors and practice tolerance.**

**Xenophobia**

He sees her stumble as the man shoves her, uttering an obscenity against her.

As she scrambles to straighten her fallen hijab, something in Tony snaps.

"Hey!" he calls, jogging after the assailant, grabbing the man's shoulder roughly, stopping him.

"What the hell man?" the stranger demands, but Tony interrupts, gesturing toward the woman a few feet behind him. "Apologize," he growls, brushing his jacket aside, revealing his shield and sidearm. The man glowers, but obliges, muttering, "Sorry, miss."

She stares after his retreating form before turning to Tony, asking curiously, "Why did you do that?"

"Because."

"Thank you."

"Salaam."


	26. Y

**You**

He hears the knock even in his half-state of sleep, bolting upright, eyes flashing to the door as his hand gropes for his SIG lurking somewhere under the sheets.

The click of the safety and there's silence.

"Tony!" a harsh whisper and he flinches in trepidation because he knows that voice.

She's standing at the threshold when he pulls the door open slowly, mahogany gaze studying him briefly before she muscles past him and into the room.

"You shouldn't be here," he tells her seriously.

"Neither should you."

"I have orders. What's your excuse?"

And it's obvious, isn't it?

"You."


	27. Z

**Zenith**

She was told, once, that it is a complicated thing. Impossible. Intangible.

And it is.

But it isn't.

It's screaming and fighting and not going to bed angry. Or explaining grammatical mishaps at an ungodly hour. There're puppies and futons; impromptu tangos just because.

It's impulses and alibis and respect. And broken elevators too.

Contentedness at folding laundry on a Friday night; spending an entire Sunday in bed.

It's braving the opposite ends of the earth to remain on the other's six.

It's standing at the zenith and having someone to share that with.

It's love.

And it's that simple.

**_FIN_**


End file.
